JWP #19:

Old Friends From The Yard: Have a long-suffering inspector (Lestrade, Gregson, Athelney Jones, original character) show up or even feature in your work today.

"What the blazes were you thinking?!"

Watson was sure his irritation was audible down the street, and the young Yarder in front of him somehow looked even smaller.

"I-I didn't—"

"Correct. You didn't think! You do not release your grip until the derbies are on and two others have him by the arms. If he had managed to escape or hurt someone tonight, it would have been your fault!"

"Watson—"

Watson turned, his attention shifting in an instant from the hapless young constable to where Holmes stood beside him, and he scanned the detective in search of injury.

"I am fine, Watson. Calm down. You tackled him before he could do more than lunge, and his knife missed."

Watson made no immediate answer, checking for himself that Holmes was unhurt. Tension rested in Holmes' shoulders, but there was no immediate evidence of injury, and he hoped that was truly the case.

After a long moment, he growled at the constable, "Get out of my sight before I forget I am not your superior."

The Yarder hurried off, and Holmes spoke again as Watson continued his scan. "I am fine. There is no need to set that bull pup of yours free."

Watson huffed, finally accepting that Holmes was uninjured. "He will need to learn to think if he hopes to have a future with the force," he muttered, staying close to a convenient lamppost.

Holmes barked a laugh, and Watson saw some of the tension relax as Holmes realized he was not truly irritated. "I would imagine he learned a piece of that today. I was talking to Lestrade when Hopkins asked if we wanted a show."

Watson smirked. "He will probably get another piece when he gets back to the Yard. Lestrade was not happy, either, though he apparently decided to put off voicing his opinion until later."

Holmes took Watson's arm. "He probably decided an irate Army doctor would provide enough correction," Holmes said as he led them down the street.

"Or he just knew that he would have another opportunity. I do hope we will not have to work with that constable again until he has learned to use that brain of his."

Holmes made a faint noise of agreement but said nothing, and Watson let the silence stretch, more focused on not leaning on Holmes as they walked.

"Where are you injured?" Holmes' question carried faintly through the darkness as they walked to where the other Yarders were gathered, and Watson nearly faltered. He had thought he had hidden the signs.

"What?" he asked, hoping he had heard wrong.

"You are holding your arm differently than usual, and you were leaning on the lamppost back there. You are also trying not to lean on me, though you are only partially succeeding. Where are you injured?"

Watson sighed. "I hit him with my left shoulder." He paused, then quietly added, "and the knife did not miss completely."

Holmes halted mid-stride, and Watson continued before Holmes could start searching for the knife wound. "I am fine. It is a small cut, and it has already stopped bleeding. It is just in an…inconvenient spot, and I can feel it every time I move."

Holmes frowned at him but resumed walking, understanding that he did not wish to take care of it here. They joined Lestrade a moment later.

"I believe Holmes enjoyed the show more than your constable did," Watson told the inspector with a smirk, not moving from his place beside Holmes.

Lestrade's expression mixed amusement with irritation. "The discussion back at the Yard will not be pleasant. This is not the first time he has done that."

Holmes frowned. "That does not sound like a lapse in thinking, then. If someone were to get hurt due to his actions, it would tear him apart."

Watson turned to look at the detective, confusion filling his gaze even as Lestrade asked what Holmes meant, and Holmes continued, "Watson pointed out that if someone ever got hurt, it would be his fault for letting go too quickly, and if this has happened before, I cannot imagine Watson being the first one to tell him that. The way the young man flinched at the comment shows that he would hate for something like that to happen. Something besides ignorance or a lapse in thinking is making him release the suspect too quickly. Identify what that is, and you may be able to solve the problem."

Watson's shoulder twinged, and he swallowed a wince as Lestrade sighed, understanding crossing the inspector's face. "Great. I hadn't thought of that, but there was an incident a few months ago that might have something to do with it."

Holmes opened his mouth to ask what had happened, but Watson purposely leaned harder on the arm he still held, and Holmes changed what he had been about to say.

"We should get going. I told Mrs. Hudson we would be back an hour ago, and Watson recently warned me that she may stop cooking if we wake her up again."

Watson smirked as Lestrade's laugh sounded, and they turned to walk down the street.

"I am alright, Holmes," Watson said when they were far enough from Lestrade. "Stop staring at me as if you expect me to collapse. I just did not want to stand there talking."

Holmes made no response, but his gaze did change from watching Watson to scanning the street.

"We do not need a cab. I can walk," Watson continued when he realized why Holmes' gaze kept darting down the empty street. "We are not far from home."

"Forgive me if I do not believe you," Holmes said, his tone nearly sharp in the darkness as he continued to look for a cab. "You despise letting me know you are injured, and your limp is growing more pronounced."

"Of course, it is," Watson replied calmly. "The cut is in an awkward spot, but it is not serious."

"Define 'serious.'"

Watson smirked. "Requiring a cab to get home."

Holmes frowned at him, but Watson rather hoped they would not find a cab. It truly was not serious, and the bouncing of a cab would be quite a bit more painful than the awkward stride he employed as they walked along the sidewalk.

Holmes voiced another question a few minutes later. "Where is it?"

Watson suppressed a grimace born partly of pain and partly of embarrassment and made no reply.

"Watson?"

"In an awkward spot," he repeated. "I'll take care of it when we get home."

Holmes squeezed his arm as they turned onto Baker Street. "Where is it?" he insisted.

Watson hesitated, but finally answered, "Right above my waistband, left side. He tried to trap the knife between us when I tackled him."

Silence answered the admission, and he glanced up to see Holmes frowning deeply.

"I should have helped you with the constable instead of stopping you," Holmes finally said before Watson could repeat that he was fine. "And," he added, "you should not have tackled him. We both knew he had a knife."

Watson used the cover of darkness to roll his eyes. "You should know better than to suggest that," he said as Holmes unlocked the door. "I explained that to you many years ago."

Holmes opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure where to go with that, and Watson smirked as he climbed the stairs. If Holmes denied the memory, he would open the way for a comment about seeing and observing, but acknowledging the memory would admit that he should have expected Watson to jump in front of him.

Holmes huffed in irritation, reading Watson's thoughts on his face. "Stop that."

Watson chuckled, abruptly stopping as it jarred the cut in his side. "Stop what? Backing you into a corner?"

Holmes' gaze sharpened, dropping the banter as he noticed Watson smother the flinch. "What is it?"

"Awkward spot," he repeated, waving off the question. "Grab my bag?"

Seating himself on the settee, he pulled up his jacket and shirt to reveal a long, shallow gash stretching from his hip halfway to his spine.

"That is not small," Holmes said as he dropped Watson's medical bag beside the settee.

"It felt smaller than it looks," Watson admitted, cleaning the cut and anchoring a bandage over it. "Still not serious, though."

Silence answered the assertion, and Watson glanced up from readjusting his shirt to find Holmes studying him.

"I'm fine, Holmes," he repeated, yawning as he put the supplies away. "It just needed cleaning. Who knows what was on that filthy knife of his."

"Take my room tonight."

"I will do no such thing." Watson closed the bag and pushed it aside, looking up to meet Holmes' gaze. "You are just as tired as I am, after running yourself ragged on this case for the last week, and I will be perfectly fine in my own room. For all that it is long, the cut really is not that serious."

Holmes frowned. "At least take the settee."

Watson stared at him, noticing the worry and the tension in Holmes' gaze. "What about this has you so tense? It is just a minor cut."

Holmes hesitated, but answered. "You said the knife was dirty, and he enjoyed using poisons."

Watson let his irritation show. "Of course, he did," he muttered. "Fine. I will sleep on the settee. Try not to spend all night standing in the doorway."

Surprise flickered across Holmes' face at the comment, and Watson released a tired smirk when he realized Holmes had not known he had been awake some of those times.

There was no more conversation, however, and Holmes eventually went to his bedroom. Watson listened to be sure Holmes was going to bed before he settled on the settee, quickly falling asleep.

And when he woke in the middle of the night to find Holmes watching him from the doorway, a thrown pillow and a growled, "go to bed!" sent the detective ducking back to his own room. For the moment, anyway.